Leyna Paul dreams of studying at Johns Hopkins University to become an anesthesiologist, but she's not sure whether she will get the opportunity.

Last month, the Trump administration announced plans to end a humanitarian program that allows Haitians who fled the devastation of the country's 2010 earthquake to stay in the United States. Now, they face a July 2019 deadline to leave or find another legal avenue for remaining in the country.

Leyna's mother brought her and her younger sister to the Eastern Shore of Maryland shortly after the earthquake; her father, a school administrator, stayed behind to help rebuild.

When she heard that her "temporary protected status" would end, Leyna felt a painful mixture of relief and dread.

Relief because the 16-year-old student at Salisbury's Parkside High School had worried that the Department of Homeland Security might force her and her family to go back on the spot.

Dread because, while she desperately misses her father, leaving will rip her away from the friends she has made and the future toward which she has worked.

"I've been hurt eight years ago, and I know I'm going to be hurt again," she said, fighting back tears.

If the administration follows through with its vow, the 60,000 affected Haitians and their families won't be the only ones hurting, immigration advocates say. Deporting those legal workers could cost the American economy billions of dollars in lost productivity and create turmoil in certain industries that rely on immigrant labor, they say.

The issue has put Delmarva's growing Haitian community in the national spotlight.

In recent years, Haitians have been drawn to the peninsula in droves by the promise of jobs in the region's $3.2 billion chicken industry. Their abrupt absence could leave poultry plants scrambling to find qualified workers, said Bill Satterfield, executive director of Delmarva Poultry Industry Inc.

"Already, some Haitian workers in our industry have fled to Canada for fear of being forced to leave America," he said in a statement. "The looming July 2019 expiration of Temporary Protected Status for some Haitian chicken company workers likely will result in more departures in the coming months."

Bill See, a Perdue spokesman, predicted that the administration's decision "will have an impact" on the company.

"Since this will play out over several months, it’s hard to predict exactly how this will impact our workforce," he said. "Of course, it will have a personal impact on some of our associates, their families and neighbors in our community."

Neither Satterfield's trade group nor any chicken companies provided statistics on the size of the industry's Haitian labor force. But Haitian community leaders estimate that their ranks comprise 50 percent or more of the payroll in many processing facilities.

“They are run by Haitians," said Habacuc Petion, general manager of the Salisbury-based Creole language radio station WRBY-FM. "It used to be the Spanish, but there were legal problems, so now the Haitians are the majority.”

'Haiti is able'

According to Acting Secretary of Homeland Security Elaine Duke, the answer is yes.

"Significant steps have been taken to improve the stability and quality of life for Haitian citizens, and Haiti is able to safely receive traditional levels of returned citizens," she said in a Nov. 20 statement. "Haiti has also demonstrated a commitment to adequately prepare for when the country’s TPS designation is terminated."

Another sign of stabilizing: The United Nations formally ended its peacekeeping operation there in October after nearly 14 years on the ground.

For its part, the Haitian government had asked the United States to once again extend the protected status. On Delmarva, many Haitians say their homeland remains in crisis, citing rampant street violence, government corruption, a lingering cholera outbreak and the impact of a recent deadly hurricane.

“It’s very hard after the earthquake, and then Hurricane Matthew came on top of it," Petion said. "It just devastated the country. The infrastructure is just not ready. There’s no way Haiti can receive 60,000 people. They’re not ready for it yet.”

Maryland Sen. Chris Van Hollen, D-8th, is one of the sponsors of legislation that would create a pathway to citizenship for Haitians at risk of losing protection.

“These men and women have lived here legally for years — they have jobs and businesses and are our neighbors. We cannot in good faith send them back to some of the most dangerous places in the world," he said.

His bill and other congressional efforts, though, have wound up on the back burner amid an end-of-year budget showdown and the GOP's tax overhaul. Republicans control both the House and Senate, and party members outside Florida, New York and other Haitian enclaves have shown little interest in taking up the cause.

Thousands needing legal help

Delmarva is home to about 15,000 Haitians, said Adam Echelman, program director of Legal Literacy Initiative, a Washington, D.C.-based group that strives to connect immigrant communities with legal resources. Of those, about 2,000 are tied to the federal humanitarian program.

Echelman has worked with church leaders and other nonprofits for several months on extending his program's services to the region when the last extension was handed down. He immediately knew his job was about to get much more difficult.

“It’s really hard to get 50,000 people to meet with lawyers," Echelman said. "It would be a huge mess. There’s going to be some great advocacy and some great work. But it’s probably going to be a small fraction of the people who could receive some help.”

He plans to bring in waves of volunteers and host workshops for the area's Haitian community starting next month.

Signed into law by President George Bush in 1990, temporary protected status is offered to legal U.S. residents and undocumented immigrants when returning to their native country is deemed unsafe. Qualifying circumstances include war, natural disaster or other "extraordinary" conditions.

The foreign nationals can obtain work documents, but the status does not "lead to lawful, permanent resident status."

About 320,000 people hailing from 10 designated countries benefit from the program nationwide. Salvadorans account for the largest share of beneficiaries, with 200,000 residents. Haitians are the second-largest.

“I have nowhere to go. I have no house. Nothing. I've been away from the country for 16 years.”

Mary Henley, TPS beneficiary and Salisbury resident

Eduardo Gonzalez, a Salisbury immigration attorney, said he has seen a "noticeable uptick" in calls since the administration's Haiti announcement. The dilemma it has created for Haitian families can be traced to a paradox inherent in the "temporary" program, he said.

"In many ways, it’s a sad turn of events considering the fact that many have set up lives in this country with the explicit consent of this country — in the form of a work permit and Social Security number — only to now have it snatched away," Gonzalez said.

Many cases will hinge on individual circumstances, such as whether a beneficiary is married to a U.S. citizen or eligible for asylum, he added. They will need to consult with an attorney to sort it out.

Immigration advocates say an untold number will surely decide to go another route, simply melting into the shadows of life in America.

'Nowhere to go'

For Mary Henley, temporary protected status provided the ladder she needed to climb out of those shadows.

She arrived on Miami's shores in 2002, buoyed by the promise that had drawn millions of immigrants to America before her: the opportunity for work and an escape from grinding poverty. Henley followed a friend to Salisbury and found steady employment at a pharmacy.

For years, she drove in fear of being pulled over and deported. Then came the earthquake, which claimed the lives of both her parents and her sister. The tragedy, though, led then-President Barack Obama to extend protected status to Haitians like Henley, and she jumped at the chance.

She can't imagine a life in Haiti for her or her three children.

"I have nowhere to go," Henley said. "I have no house. Nothing. I've been away from the country for 16 years."

Her mind turns to her oldest child, 14-year-old Junior Desty. He dreams of a career as a running back in the National Football League. In Haiti, "football" is played with a round ball and two nets.

"If I go, his dream is ended," she said.

Desty was born in the United States, making him an American citizen. But when asked what he would do if his mother is forced to go back to Haiti, he doesn't waver: He would finish high school at Parkside, staying with a family friend he calls his "aunt."

Then, he would leave for a country he has never seen.

"I need my mother in my life," he said.

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Pastor Willeme Thomas of the Word of Life Center poses for a photo on Thursday, Dec. 7, 2017. (Photo: Staff photo by Ralph Musthaler)

Haitian churches find their voice

The looming end of protection has sent shock waves through Delmarva's Haitian churches. For many, the church is more than a place of worship; it is a vital social link and pipeline to government and nonprofit aid.

At Word of Life Center on Jersey Road in Salisbury, Pastor Roosevelt Toussaint wears many hats: translator, career counselor, transportation provider.

About a dozen of his congregants have moved to Canada in recent weeks in response to the Trump administration's decision, he said.

"We lost some key people. They were very much indeed in our ministry. We couldn't convince them to stay," Toussaint said.

One notable case was a woman who had temporarily moved from Salisbury to New York City as part of her training to become a registered nurse. Toussaint had hoped she would serve in the church's day care after she had finished her studies and returned to the Shore.

His advice to others who remain despite their fears: "All you can do is tell them to keep believing in God."

At Haitian Pentecostal Church in Salisbury, Pastor Gabrielle Montilus dispenses similar counsel.

"I just pray. I don’t know what is going to happen. They’re very scared to go back. They don’t have nobody to help them. So they stay in place and call me all the time," she said.

Montilus' actions have crossed from the spiritual to the political realm on the issue. On the day after the administration made the change public, she joined faith leaders in calling for a permanent fix during a conference call sponsored by one immigration advocacy group.

Willeme Thomas is a pastor and founder of the Haitian Coalition of Delmarva, an alliance of the region's 32 Haitian churches.

Thomas oversees a half dozen congregations belonging to Church of the Nazarene, stretching from Federalsburg to Delmar. When he came to the United States two decades ago, however, he worked in chicken plants himself.

"Haitians will work for years and years because they want to make a living, not just to make money for their kids and grandkids, but to send money back down there (to Haiti). They are reliable and long-term workers," Thomas said.

He hopes that the region's poultry industry returns the favor by lending its voice to the debate and making lawmakers aware of the potential economic consequences that sending its workers away might have.

Striving for togetherness

Leyna Paul plays violin in Parkside's orchestra and piano at her church, Toussaint's Word of Life. She won a poetry contest not long ago sponsored by Maryland's NAACP chapter.

She titled the poem "L'union Fait La Force," which means "Unity Makes Strength." The motto is found on Haiti's coat of arms, but in Leyna's interpretation, it rings with a fresh and distinctly American force.